


Kiss and Control

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-02
Updated: 2007-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: There are other ways to break Dean's spirit. (Spoilers for BUaBS)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

title: kiss and control

author: jinni (jinni.tth@gmail.com)

rated: nc17

disclaimer: all things spn belong to Kripke, et al. The title is from “Kiss and Control” by AFI.

Pairing: Sam/Dean, well…sort of. *smirk* 

Warning: wincest, dark, could be seen as questionable consent for one of the boys

Spoilers: For “Born Under a Bad Sign”. You’ll see the point at which I start twisting the events of the episode around to suit my whims.

Summary: There are other ways to break Dean’s spirit. 

 

 

PART ONE

 

Something is wrong with Sam. That’s the one thought that should be zipping through Dean’s brain like an electric storm, thunderclouds and strikes of lightning, deadly and beautiful. He watched the video. There’s no denying what he saw with his own two eyes. Sammy killed that hunter. Cold-blooded, precise, viciously. All those things that they were taught as they grew up, put to use. How to separate themselves from the hunt. How to take down what they were hunting without a second thought. Because that’s what he’d seen on that tape: Sam hadn’t hesitated.

 

Dad had never intended them to use it what they learned from him on a human being though. Not another living, breathing person. Never that.

 

He stops at the door and rubs a tired hand over his face, watches as Sam walks to the bed and sits down. This isn’t going to break them, Dean tells himself, more because he needs to hear it than because he actually _believes_ it at this point. Though he supposes that if he says it enough he might someday start to take it to heart. 

 

When he finally pushes himself to get moving, get away from the door and start making plans, he sees that Sam is shaking. Looking little-boy lost and out of his element. He’s afraid and trying not to show it. The only give away is the movement of his shoulders. Shivering, like he’s cold inside. 

 

Dean sighs. “It wasn’t you.”

 

“It was,” Sam argues and doesn’t look up. He’s staring at the floor, and Dean can’t see what’s so great about it that Sam would choose to just fixate on it. Unless, of course, he’s doing that emo-avoidance-bullshit of his. Completely possible. 

 

Why was it that when _Dean_ had a problem, Sam was all gung-ho to talk about it, but the second he had one of his own he clammed up like a brooding girl? Totally uncool. Dean sighs and rakeshis fingers back through his hair.

 

“There’s an explanation for what we saw,” Dean said. Firmly. No room for argument. Not in this. “We just have to figure out what it is.”

 

Sam looks up, something like numb horror in his eyes. He manages to meet Dean’s gaze for all of a handful of seconds before he looks away again and shakes his head. 

 

They need to get moving. Other hunters are going to notice what happened here soon, and the last thing Dean wants is any of them knowing that he and Sam were anywhere nearby. That’ll be like pointing fingers at themselves, something Dean isn’t cool with. They’ve got enough shit on their plates right now without adding another heaping spoonful on top, thanks.

 

He knows all of that, and yet he sits down next to Sam anyway, jostling him with his shoulder, ignoring the warmth that spreads from the contact and the way his mind misfires for a second, screaming _Sammy_ and _okay_ and _back_ at him until Dean just wants to tell it to shut up. In there, too, are all the things he shouldn’t be thinking. About hugging him, touching him, reassuring himself that Sam is still alive and whole. Well, maybe a little damaged in the head, but still _alive_ , and that’s what matters most. They can fix the rest. Make it better somehow…someway.

 

The kind of reassuring he wants to do, though? Not so much of the brotherly nature.

 

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. In front of him. Where he can watch the sneaky bastards and make sure they don’t do any of that _touching_ that his mind seems to think would be _okay_ and _good_.

 

“We’ll get through this, Sam,” Dean finally sighs. “Just… trust me, okay?”

 

The room is quiet, not even the whir of an air conditioning unit or heater. Staring down at the carpet, Dean tries to let his mind get wrapped up in the grotesqueness that is the carpet of yet another shifty motel, tries to push down those feelings and needs and urges that always seem to come up when he’s near Sam no matter how many times he tells himself that it’s _sickdirtywrong_ or that one day he’s gonna _burn in hell_ for just _thinking_ of Sammy spread out like that for him.

 

He waits for an answer from Sam, half-expecting another argument. There’s something churning in the pit of his stomach. A nervous despair that he can’t even begin to come to grips with right now. They’ve got work to do, things to figure the fuck out before Sammy does something like this again. Who’s to say that it’s over and done with? No way of knowing for sure until they know what caused it in the first place. Until then he’ll just have to keep an eye on Sam at all times. Maybe cuff him to the bed at night.

 

And _that_ is not what he needs to be thinking about. Shit! Dean stays leaning forward, hoping that he doesn’t need to move before his body calms the fuck down. He exhales slowly, hopes that Sam doesn’t notice how ragged it sounds. 

 

Then Sam’s lips are right there, at the shell of his goddamned ear, and Dean nearly loses it, “You okay?”

 

Dean jerks and nearly bangs his head into Sam jaw. There’s a little smile playing at the corner of Sam’s mouth that’s completely _wrong_ considering, well, _everything_ , but Dean chalks it up to Sam having a laugh at his expense, at startling him, and Dean supposes he can be okay with that if it means that Sammy isn’t moping and being all doom and gloom for a few minutes.

 

“’M fine,” Dean mutters. Really, though, he’s not. This isn’t the time or place for these feelings. Okay, yeah, there’s never really a time or place for the way he feels about his _little brother_ , because that? That’s just fucked up no matter when, where, why, or how.

 

But getting a hard-on when you’re supposed to be figuring out why said little brother killed a man in cold blood and can’t remember doing it? Well that just seems like a little side dish of fucked up to go along with the great big heaping entrée of fucked up-ness. 

 

Sam laughs softly. Again, this is odd. Dean blinks at Sam, trying to figure it all out in his head and coming up with nothing. And Sam just looks back at him, all dark eyes and freshly licked lips, the worry still there in the little creases of his brow, but a teasing smile on his lips.

 

Okay, that does it. “Dude – are _you_ okay?” 

 

“’M fine,” Sam throws back Dean’s words, tone, and inflection, and the little smile turns into a smirk. 

 

The fuck?

 

“Sammy – what’s –“ is about as far as he gets before Sam is leaning back, away from him, reclining on the bed and watching him with a look in his eyes that Dean’s never seen before. Not directed at _him_ anyway. Hell, not directed at much of anyone. Sammy isn’t usually like _that_.

 

Right now he’s looking at Dean like he could eat him alive, and, well, that should be making Dean nervous. In fact, it is. 

 

But mostly it’s just making him horny as all fuck.

 

He shifts, pants uncomfortably across his swelling dick. 

 

“I know you watch me sometimes,” Sam says, suddenly, all intensity and seriousness. The laughter is gone from his face, leaving with it just the pure, raw desire that’s shining through his eyes, dark and powerful. Dean swallows, feels something move down his throat like a lump, and finds he still can’t speak. Doesn’t know what to say, though he’s sure it should sound something like denial. Okay, definitely like denial. But the words aren’t coming like they should.

 

“Took me a while to figure out _why_ ,” Sam murmurs, moving his hips, angling for a more comfortable position. Or maybe he just wants to draw Dean’s attention to the fact that he is obviously sporting serious wood in those baggy ass jeans of his because that’s exactly what it does. Like a magnet to its opposite, Dean’s eyes follow the movement right to Sam’s hips and, _ohgoodGOD_.

 

Sam laughs, full and warm and so seductive that it _hurts_ to just sit there with his hands curled into fists, wanting to touch, to map out every inch of that reclining, at ease body.

 

“Sammy – what’s going on?”

 

“Nothing. Everything,” Sam says with a shrug. His smile falters, slips, and tears shine in his eyes, masking the lust that was there only a second before. That quick, like a switch being thrown in his head. “I killed someone, Dean. Who knows, I could be going bad right now and all I can do is sit here and think about everything I’ve never done. Everything I stopped myself from doing because it would be _wrong_ and _bad_.” Sam’s laugh was hollow, sort of empty, and it scares Dean a little. “Things that feel _right_ inside. Things that I might not have another chance to do because tomorrow you might have to put a bullet in me.”

 

Dean isn’t shaking, but he’s damn close to it. Hearing things he’s thought time and time again coming from Sam’s lips with that kind of desperation is a little too much.

 

But he’s still arguing with himself. Still unable to commit to making that step and screwing him and Sam up more than they already are. Instead he fixes on the other part of what Sam said, hoping to distract his brother from all this talk of things they damn well shouldn’t do. Ever. “I’m not gonna kill you, Sam.”

 

“You promised,” Sam reminds him, all wide eyed and sincere and, fuck, why did he make that dumbass promise to begin with? He sits up, and is suddenly in Dean’s face, lips and mouth too close, eyes haunted and aching and _needing_. There’s a slither of something in their green depths that doesn’t seem right, but it’s there and gone so quick that Dean barely has time to register it as anything at all. “You. Promised.”

 

Sam’s breath blows over his lips, that’s how close they are. It wouldn’t take anything to lean forward and kiss those words away from his lips. Take them with teeth and tongue, swallow them down and try to banish them so that they never see the light of day again. He will not be killing his brother. Not tonight or ever. 

 

As if he can hear Dean’s thoughts, Sam leans in just a fraction of an inch. A sliver of space, nothing more, but the _intent_ is clear. An opening, an invitation. He’s pretty sure that this smooth wait and tempt is seduction. It feels like seduction. Feels too smooth and slick for Sammy’s normal games but it’s easy to rack that up alongside all the other excuses he’s made so far that day, say that it’s just the situation they’re in. That Sam is freaking out over what he thinks he’s done. 

 

He ignores that part of him that’s nagging that something is _off_ because Sam keeps whispering about that goddamned promise and all Dean can think about is that he doesn’t want to hear it anymore. Can’t hear it anymore or he’ll go fucking insane. There’s no way he’s going to kill his brother. It just isn’t going to happen. Sam needs to just _shut the fuck up_.

 

And since Sam won’t shut up on his own, Dean is going to damn well make him. 

 

His mouth crashes into Sam’s with enough force to make their teeth bang together, an ache already spreading through his jaw before Sam even begins to shove his tongue into his mouth. It feels like he’s choking and fuck if he wants it to stop because that might mean Sam will go back to talking about _promises_ and _killing him_. And Sam said he’d thought about this, too, right? 

 

That makes it – maybe not _right_ \- but better, somehow.

 

And then Sam’s hands start moving, and things go from _better_ to _fuckyes_ in a matter of seconds.

 

“Sam,” Dean says, trying and failing to pull away from the kiss. Only managing a breath and a whisper before his brother’s lips are back on his, sucking the air from his lungs with deep, demanding kisses that spread through Dean’s body like the sweetest, most perfect of drugs. Wanting this for so long, it’s practically painful now that he has it, made even more so by the fact that he knows - _knows_ \- that something is just not right with Sammy. 

 

_Damn it_.

 

“Sammy,” he tries again, this time managing to pull back enough that he can catch his breath. Great, gasping gulps of air that fill his lungs for only a second before Sam is back, latching onto his mouth like he’s a starving man and Dean is a buffet.

 

“Talk later,” Sam mutters against his lips, breath ghosting over Dean’s mouth.

 

“But –“ Dean says, followed by a single thought of _oh, fuck it_. He might as well give up because Sam has always been a stubborn bastard and right now he’s got a one track mind set on devouring Dean. Starting with the mouth and working his way on from there.

 

Well, Dean _hopes_ that he plans on working his way on from there, because damn he’s hard and throbbing, and these jeans aren’t all that comfortable when his dick is at full mast, straining against the zipper like it’s going to pop free at any second.

 

Moaning into his mouth, Sam pushes with one hand on Dean’s shoulder, angling Dean backwards so that he’s lying on the bed, Sam half on top of him, within only a couple seconds. It’s smooth. Smoother than Dean thought that his little brother knew how to be. The hand on his shoulder moves lower, tracing invisible patters on his chest through his shirt. Nails scratch at the fabric, light then hard. Harder still, like he’s trying to leave marks through the cloth, leave his mark on Dean’s body like he’s already left one on his fucking soul. 

 

If he’d ever fantasized about this – not that he has because that would be _sickwrongohsodirty_ \- Dean doesn’t think he would have pictured Sam on top, forceful and demanding. Tongue slipping past lips with finesse and strength. Insisting with every lick and nip that this is going to happen and it’s going to happen Sammy’s way.

 

Dean doesn’t have a problem with that so far, even if there’s still that little voice in the back of his head that’s telling him that this isn’t _right_ and that something could be really wrong with Sammy. He shoves that little voice into a box clearly labeled _open after fucking_ and starts exploring Sam’s body for himself.

 

Dean’s fingers dip under the edge of Sam’s shirt, tracing the line of a thin, puckered scar just above the waistband of his brother’s jeans. He’s strong and lean. All hard muscles and smooth flesh, marked with the scars that Sam gained through years of hunting. He doesn’t know his brother like this, but he wants to. Wants to map every scar with his fingers, learn each dip and ridge. He flexes his fingers, feels the edge of Sam’s hip bone under his hand, just as Sam decides that Dean’s lips no longer hold the same fascination they once did, and moves on to his jaw… and, oh _Christ_ , his neck. 

 

Warm laughter tickles his skin, and Dean can feel Sam’s smile against his neck as those wicked, much more talented than he gave them credit for, lips continue to suck hard marks into his flesh with every second that passes. All the kissing reminds Dean of being with a girl, lips and mouth moving constantly. Then again, he’s always said Sam was a _girl_ , so, hey, whatever, right?

 

He hears the heat in the room click on just as Sam’s fingers find their way to the snap of his jeans, flicking it open with practiced ease, and Dean wonders if he got that kind of effortless talent from unzipping his own pants, or other peoples’, because damn if Sammy is still _naiveinnocentuntouched_ in his mind after everything he’s done so far. He always assumed that Jess was Sam’s first and only. Apparently that was wrong.

 

And then the pressure around his cock is gone, the zipper tugged down and away, letting his aching flesh fucking breathe a little, and he damn near groans with relief.

 

A very undignified whimper manages to worm its way past Dean’s lips when Sam’s hand closes around his dick, squeezing just enough to be _good_ without being _too hard_. It’s a fight to keep his hips down on the bed, to not push up into Sam’s hand like an overeager boy getting his first handjob. Damn, Sammy’s hand feels good, though. Even if he’s never done this with a guy before – and Dean doesn’t want to even _think_ about whether or not Sammy has ever been with another guy – Sam knows the way that _he_ likes to have his dick touched, and he uses that with Dean. 

 

“You like that?” Sam whispers between biting kisses. 

 

Sam’s name comes out as a broken moan between Dean’s lips, as those long fingers pluck at the waist of Dean’s jeans, pulling them down, baring his crotch. He gets them down to just below Dean’s knees before he stops, and those wicked lips have never once left his neck. 

 

Dean’s brain is fuzzy at the edges, drugged from sex and lust. He’s floating on cloud nine, high on the feel of his brother’s hands on his dick, Sammy’s lips on his neck and throat, the way that his body is buzzing with need and want. The way that teeth nip at his pulse, hard, before moving on again. He’ll be bruised to fuck in a few hours from some of those. Marked up in ways that he’s never let anyone else do to him.

 

Only for Sammy. Only _ever_ Sammy.

 

He doesn’t want to call it domination, but there’s no way to deny the fact that Sam’s in control. And no one except Sam will ever be like this with him. There’s no one else that he could ever trust this way. Trust to take control, to make it _good_ if not fucking _perfect_.

 

Fumbling blindly at Sam’s own jeans, Dean is brought up short when Sam pulls his head back, eyes dark, voice low when he murmurs teasingly, a little darkly, “Uh uh. Not yet, Dean.”

 

There’s something about the way that he says it, the lilt of his voice, that jars at Dean’s memories, stirs something. But it’s fleeting and gone just as quickly as it came, because Sam’s hand is stroking him hard and fast. Rough and precise. Like he’s working on a time frame that Dean isn’t aware of and they have to reach the _goal_ sooner rather than later. Dean pushes up, voice broken, when he says, “C’mon, man. Let me…let me…”

 

Sam laughs but doesn’t let up. Dean can feel each and every flick of Sam’s wrist like it’s hardwired right into that part of his brain that doles out pleasure. It feels good. Too good. And Dean doesn’t want it to be over so soon, so quick. He wants to touch Sam, taste Sam. More than just his mouth. Wants to lick and suck every part of Sam’s body, from those mocking lips to the erection he can feel grinding against his thigh even as Sam continues to strip his dick with those tightly controlled strokes. The rocking thrust of Sam’s hips against Dean are just this side of being torture. He wants, no _needs_ , to touch him. This isn’t right if it’s one sided. Dean doesn’t want that.

 

He pushes hard against Sam’s shoulder with one hand, thrusting the other between their bodies to grasp and fumble with the fly of his brother’s jeans, and this time Sam doesn’t stop him, just groans something that sounds like _sure, why not_.

 

Dean can’t think enough to wonder what _that_ means. All his blood is working to fuel his lower brain, and his upper, well that’s not completely there at the moment. He can barely piece together the coordination to get Sam’s jeans unzipped and peeled down enough to get his hand into Sam’s boxers, wrap his hand around his cock, and get it out where he can really set to work on it.

 

It’s hot and heavy in his hand. Possibly thicker than his own, but Dean’s not in the mood to lay them down next to each other and make a side-by-side comparison. Not with Sam working his dick like it’s his one life’s goal to make Dean shoot his load. Sam lifts his hips, and there’s just barely enough room when Dean adjusts his grip and starts to stroke. Soft at first, learning the length and girth of that thick heat, watching Sam’s face to see what he likes, what sets him on edge. He’s not too hot on having the head touched, but he does like a little tighter squeeze near the top, right under the ridge of the purpled, swollen flesh. 

 

He can work with that.

 

Thick, harsh grunts and moans fill the air as they fist each other. Sam’s mouth finds his, and the kiss is sloppy as lips slide against each other, not quite meshing, then they slip more and are _there_ , complete and furious. Tongue fucking hard and fast, with scrapes of teeth and a rattling force that sets Dean’s jaw to aching. Sam’s long fingers flex around his dick, adjusting the grip, and then Dean is groaning long and low with every swipe of hand down his cock. He forgets to reciprocate, losing himself in it for one minute…two, then he jerks into motion again.

 

This is everything that he could have ever wanted and nothing that he _needed_. It will only fuck things up more in the long run, that much he’s sure of. But it’s so hard to feel regretful with Sam’s hand around his dick, and Sammy’s hot, throbbing erection in his hand. He lifts up, tangling his tongue with Sam’s, moaning as the pressure in his balls builds, a white-hot surge at the base of his spine. 

 

It’s Sam that goes first, despite how close Dean is. He groans and tears his mouth away. “Dean… fuck yes…” and then nothing but a long moan that might’ve been Dean’s name, but also might not have. Hard to tell with the complete lack of, you know, coherency. Watching Sam cum is like being granted a little peek at paradise, Dean decides. Eyes shut, mouth slack enough to see a hint of tongue and flash of teeth, he’s panting and gasping with every tiny jerk of his hips, in time with the pulsing stream of thick cum that’s shooting from his dick, all over the Dean’s hand and thigh. It’s almost enough to make Dean cum.

 

Almost.

 

“Move, Sammy, c’mon,” he orders, throat raw, voice husky. He pushes in and out of Sam’s loose grip, nearly screaming his relief when Sam recovers and gathers enough wits to go back to what he was doing, albeit without the kissing, as he tries to regain his breath. Dean’s eyes don’t leave his face as he watches him breathe, takes in the flush of his cheeks, replays in his head the sounds that Sam made as he –

 

“Gahh,” Dean moans, the fire in his belly flaring and erupting, shooting out of his dick. He comes so hard that he sees stars on the washed out black of his eyelids, flares of bright light that snap through him whip-quick to coincide with the hard, throbbing pulse of heat that spurts out of him as he cums.

 

Sam laughs softly, rolls off of Dean to lay next to him on the bed. Funny, he always thought Sammy would be a cuddler, but there’s more than enough space between the two of them. In fact, the room is quiet except for the steady hum of the heater and Dean’s own, still laboring, breaths. 

 

His eyes drift shut, the languidness of post-orgasmic haze spreading through his limbs like the sweetest kind of lethargy. He’ll get up and get them both going in a minute. They still have to figure out what the fuck is going on with Sam, and there’s bound to be some awkward as hell moments coming up considering they are _brothers_ and just finished _jacking each other off_ , but he can’t seem to get up too much worry about it right then and there. They’ll be fine. They have to be.

 

The bed shifts, Sam sitting up. Dean doesn’t open his eyes. Easier not to face reality and continue reveling in the warm, sated feeling running through him if he doesn’t deal with whatever freak out Sammy’s about to have.

 

“Dean –“ Sam says, and Dean knows that he’s going to get that freak out whether or not he bothers to open his eyes. Still, if he keeps them shut maybe Sam will think he’s sleeping. Maybe. “You should just… do what Dad would have wanted. Make sure I don’t go evil. Kill me.”

 

Dean frowns, the warmth of the post-orgasmic bliss in his veins turning to ice water. Now he really doesn’t want to open his eyes. A freak out over the whole, you know, _incest_ thing, that’s one thing. But this bullshit? 

 

“I’d rather die,” he mutters, voice cracking under the honesty. Because seriously? He _would_ rather die than be the cause of his little brother’s destruction.

 

“No. You’ll live,” Sam says with a sigh. Then, harder, “You’ll live to regret this.”

 

Huh?

 

Dean’s eyes snap open, as the bed shifts again, something scraping against the nightstand. He barely sees the butt of the gun as it comes towards his head, Sam’s eyes dark and unforgiving. 

 

Then, in a moment of skull-shattering pain, everything is dark.

 

END


End file.
